


In Distress

by Mussimm



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: After The Bastille(tm), Ancient China, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale has a kink, Casual disregard for human life, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Explicit sex but we're not going hard, Femme Aziraphale shows up, Mesopotamia, Multi, Protective Crowley, Salem, Seriously so many people die in the periphery here, So does Femme Crowley, Ye Olde Germany
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 17:40:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21673885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mussimm/pseuds/Mussimm
Summary: Five times Crowley rescued Aziraphale and one time he got a proper thank you.Written for the Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019 forSherwhotreksingsSome historical shenanigans. Aziraphale can't keep himself out of trouble but maybe he likes it that way?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 464
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019





	In Distress

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sherwhotreksings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherwhotreksings/gifts).

\--

Ur, Mesopotamia – 524BC

\--

Humans were such fast-moving creatures. Always looking forward. Progress, they called it. They invented things to make their lives easier, they worshipped God to find everlasting life, they made great edifices for beauty and practicality. They sometimes tied Aziraphale's hands together and led him about with a rope. 

He usually didn't tolerate this sort of behaviour but Princess Ennigaldi had been different to these other humans, a kindred spirit, so he was happy to be contained in her household. She liked to look backwards. He'd spent many happy hours in her new thing, a 'museum', looking at all the statues and tablets and whatnot she'd had carefully tucked away and labelled and kept safe for future generations. And if all that meant he'd lost track of time, well that was to be expected. And if he'd forgotten a key component to Babylonian funerals, well...

Aziraphale sighed, looking at his bound wrists, glancing around at all the other slaves and the dozens of guards. Humans tended to be afraid of death but these sacrifices were such an important part of how they saw themselves that they hardly seemed to care. It was all startlingly ordinary. A priest was offering each a bowl of wine, not to be tasted until they'd filed, one by one, into the princess's tomb. The sun was blistering overhead, threatening to burn. 

The priest made his way up the line, offering another clay bowl, another drop of wine, another drop of poison. Then he froze. 

The other slaves froze. The guards froze. The birds in the trees froze. 

“Can I ask what the plan is?” 

Oh, heaven help him. 

Crawly had announced his presence in the city not so long ago. He'd scoffed at the idea of a museum but he liked the draping, dripping, fringed clothing and the frankly excessive beer ration, and so also announced his intention to stay. And in this moment he was draped and dripping and smiling the most smugly amused smile at Aziraphale, glancing around at the procession of bound slaves. 

Aziraphale pursed his lips and hoped the spark of genius would come before he opened his mouth. “The plan? Yes. A plan. For escape. Working on that, actually.”

“You don't have one,” Crawly said flatly, the amusement in his smile only growing. He leaned against the pole of his black linen parasol, positively oozing smarmy victory. “Did you think of maybe walking away? Or maybe I've got the wrong end of the stick and the ropes are... recreational?”

Aziraphale scowled, feeling his cheeks heat up. “They are nothing of the sort. It's not so easy to go unnoticed when the humans are looking for you in particular.”

“Mm?”

“And... and... and I'm part of the princess's entourage, if they think they're sending her off to the afterlife without one of her slaves they'll be after me in a moment.”

Crowley gave him a nonplussed look. “You could make them forget you.”

“Mess around with this many guards? Don't be preposterous, they've known me for years, I'd be scrambling their brains like eggs. So, you see, it's just a bit of a pickle.”

“So, the plan is, you're going to walk into that tomb so as not to frighten the guards, then drink your cup of poison so as not to worry the slaves, and then explain to the archangels why you discorporated through suicide?”

Aziraphale glanced down at his bound wrists, wishing he had something cutting and clever to say. “Well, when you put it like that...”

Crawly's insufferable, condescending smile returned. The sort one gives an animal that's stuck their head in a pot and is wiggling around trying to get it off. “Can I suggest an alternate solution?”

“Absolutely not! I won't be working any demonic wiles on these people even if it does -”

Crawly raised his hand and clicked his fingers. The ropes sprung off Aziraphale's wrists and his simple scribe's tunic dropped in length to his ankles, wound an elaborate belt around his waist and an aristocrat's stole around his shoulders. The clothing bloomed fringes and embroidery like flowers and all of a sudden he wasn't a slave. 

He looked up to Crawly, who offered him a pale tan hat between two fingers. Aziraphale hesitated a moment, then took it from his hand. He kept his eyes on the snake even has he pulled the hat on, adjusting it over his hair. Why would a demon do something like this? Just to prove his quicker wits? To hold a favour over him?

But Crawly's face betrayed none of it, still amused, still condescending. Aziraphale looked at his wrists again, as if the ropes might have left marks. Was he supposed to thank a demon? What did good manners dictate?

He only watched with concerned eyes, allowed Crawly to walk them away from the group of slaves. No one would pay any mind to two noblemen come to oversee the princess's burial preparations. Time restarted again, the bustle of the city retaking its place in the morning air, and Aziraphale watched Crawly as he prepared to make his exit.

Crawly sighed, twisting his parasol and turning to head toward the city again. “Keep yourself out of trouble, Aziraphale. And just so you know, if you'd told me you were planning a daring rescue inside the tomb, I would have believed you.”

_ Why have you done this? _ Was what Aziraphale wanted to say. Or maybe  _ thank you. _ But he didn't. He just watched Crawly walk away, and tried not to read anything to the final glance the demon stole over his shoulder before slipping out of sight.

\--

Jiankang, China – 418AD

\--

Crowley looked good in silk, Aziraphale had to admit, with her hair up like that. He could have been concerned about her integrating herself into the emperor's court but it was such a mess when he'd arrived it was hard to imagine demonic influence could make it worse and she really did look good in that dress. Layers and layers of red silk, her fire-red hair making an exotic beauty of her in the Chinese court, dripping with onyx and brass. 

She peered at him over the crowded room, a glimpse of yellow eyes over her dark glasses and Aziraphale flushed, looking away. There was work to be done and plenty of it. He wasn't sure what to make of bureaucracy. Crowley had sworn up and down it wasn't hell's doing but it made the humans so miserable that he couldn't imagine it was heavenly. Maybe just another case of humans being too clever for their own good. 

Regent Yang dismissed the court with a word and the emperor was bundled off to his lessons, the rest dispersing, but Crowley lingered, offering Aziraphale a pointed look. 

Empress Jia swished past him, only catching his eyes long enough to stick her nose in the air, her daughters blowing past in a cloud of pale silk, perfume and deliberate snubs. He hung back, waiting for the humans to abandon the meeting hall. Crowley looked out over the meditation gardens, leaning against the window, exposing the longest line of her delicate neck and collarbone. 

“Saw your little note,” Crowley said. “Your  _ scroll _ . Your man's a good enough poet.”

“They do like their poetry,” Aziraphale said, smiling smugly. The admonitions scroll was quite a feat, and really he'd had nothing to do with it, just given them a little push to having the courage to go through with it. It was a lovely thing, metres of silk in painting and poetry to send a polite jab at the empress’s sense of decorum. “I think it gets the point across.” 

“Oh, it does. You know who else saw it? Empress Jia. She's not pleased.”

“That was rather the point.”

Crowley scowled. “What are you even trying to do here?”

“Well, nothing specific.” Aziraphale clasped his hands behind his back. “Emperor Zhou needs some good faith counsel if he's to rule China well.”

Crowley snorted and shot him another look over her glasses, the engraved snakes on the rims catching the red of her hair and dress. “Emperor Zhou is doing well on a night he doesn't drool all over himself. You can't think he's going to take over actual ruling.”

“He's learned to read and write!”

“Oh, well, what more could we possibly ask for in an emperor?”

“And anyway, if I can't influence him I can at least urge the regent toward mercy and patience.”

“You hanging around those drunken old perverts doesn't give them as much legitimacy as you might think, no matter how many misogynist poems you inspire.”

Aziraphale let out a huff. The scroll was perhaps a bit too general about the role of women in the court but it certainly applied to the empress. And it was art. Crowley never understood art. He hadn't come to the court to influence saintly souls, these were the ones that needed him. And furthermore... “They're better than her.”

“Nah.” Crowley gave a sort of full-faced shrug. “She's fine. At least she's not impregnating any teenagers.”

It was Aziraphale's turn to scoff. “No, she just has the pregnant girls quietly murdered.”

“You don't actually think I'm letting her murder them, do you?”

Aziraphale's mouth snapped shut. They weren't so ill acquainted that he mistook Crowley for some homicidal blood-fiend, but it was almost too tender-hearted of her to be spiriting away pregnant girls threatening Jia's claim to the throne. He watched her for a long moment while she avoided his eyes, trying to gauge her. He was too harsh, sometimes. It wasn't very angelic of him. 

“Anyway,” he said, gentling his tone. “That's the point of being here. You have your empress, I have my regent, we'll just have to agree to disagree.”

Crowley winced. He opened his mouth to say something, closed it, opened it again. “Yeah, about that...”

“Crowley...” Aziraphale's gut sunk. 

“She  _ really _ didn't like the poem.”

“Are you telling me Regent Yang is in danger?”

“Hah!” She barked out a laugh. “Regent Yang? Angel, I'm telling you next time one of Jia's girls offers you something to drink you should pretend to drink it, then pretend to flop around on the floor dying, then actually leave the city before they figure out you survived. The empress is sick of sharing power.”

Her loud voice rang about the hall and then fell silent, the flat afternoon air dead between them as Aziraphale stared. She shouldn't have told him that. He could move against her, prevent the coup. Except not really, not without staging one of his own, which wouldn't go down well with head office. And if he survived that initial poisoning, there were plenty of guards to finish the job. 

Crowley was offering him this olive branch. A professional courtesy. He could avoid discorporation and a few decades of doing paperwork in heaven while he waited on a new body. Maybe heaven really had invented bureaucracy. 

Aziraphale nodded shortly. “Thank you. For the warning.”

Crowley seized him by his collar, quick as a snake, knuckles bruising his collarbone, eyes suddenly pinning him to the wall. Her voice was low, deadly. “Don't thank me. I'm bragging, not warning you.”

Aziraphale held those serpent's eyes, his breath coming short, his immortal enemy holding him in an iron grip. He nodded, not saying anything to incriminate himself further. When Crowley released him he left, moving quickly, no plan in his mind except to leave this room, get himself somewhere he could think and breathe. 

He'd barely stepped out the door when he was confronted by a young girl, no older than fifteen. She stood in his path, painted and dressed, one of Emperor Zhou's concubines, and she held a steaming cup of tea in both hands. 

“Master Scribe, I brought you a cup of tea,” she said, smiling brightly. 

Oh, hell. He hated pretending to die, it was always murder on the knees. Still off-kilter from Crowley, he managed a thready smile and nodded. “Thank you, my dear.”

He took the cup of tea. 

\--

Neustria, Germany - 757AD

\--

Aziraphale had spent time as a knight. Quite a bit of time. That Arthur over in Britannia had been one of the good ones. Now it was all the rage, with the armour and the horses and the banners. Which wasn't a bad thing, exactly. Certainly it gave a little too much weight to the wrong sort of person, from time to time, but the pageantry of it all gave quite a lot of community spirit. 

When she'd witnessed King Arthur's coronation it had just been her, a few of the knights and a horse. Now it was all... this. The coronation tourney, complete with waving flags, feasting, thousands of people. And her, in female guise, in a cloth-of-gold dress and her hair done up. Not her preferred presentation but needs must, men rose and fell from power so quickly these days it was easier to be a constant presence as a lady of the court. She might have enjoyed being pampered by ladies maids as they did her hair and nails, but that was just a happy coincidence. 

So, for the most part, it was fine. Better than fine, good! New king, lots of horses, plenty of food. Jolly good day to be on heaven's side. For the most part.

As for the other part...

“Freiin Fell, if you don't give me your favour I will surely die of heartache!” The knight was a little older, a little overweight, had three teeth missing and had clearly been using his title more for discounted drinks than any martial pursuits. She was in no danger of the man winning anything and demanding a winner's due for her favour but to promise herself to a man at all in that manner didn't seem becoming. She absolutely reeled at the thought of attending this man through a victory bath and warming his bed for the night on the very remote chance he won a title. 

“Oh, oh I couldn't possibly. I'm...” she tried. The air hung empty as he waited for her excuse. “Going to be a nun.”

“Ah, but you've taken no vows yet, have you? Let me give you some memories to keep you warm in that cold convent.”

She sighed, trying her very best to keep it discreet. Social rules changed so often and they had so many of them but surely this wasn't polite. “I have refused you, sir, now do be a good fellow and carry on.”

“You want your heart to be won, then, is it?” the knight continued as if he hadn't heard her. “I will write you poetry that would make Lord Jesu weep. I will write odes to your golden hair, your pretty hands, your...” 

He paused in his assessment and Aziraphale had to interject before he decided what else to compliment. She was going to have to miracle him a new brain to get him to stop. “Good sir, I really must insist you leave me be, I have no favour to give.”

“Don't play so coy with an old man, I am weak with love for you. Won't you-”

“She's spoken for.” The tinny, familiar voice sent a shock of gratitude right down to Aziraphale's pearly slippers. She had to physically restrain herself from slumping with relief. He'd make her pay for the rescue but it wouldn't be nearly as bad as what she'd been facing. 

“Crowley,” she breathed, “I didn't realise you were here.”

“I am, and you're not giving my favours away to just anyone with a polished sword, are you?” His armour hadn't changed in two hundred years, the sinister glimpse of yellow eyes just perfect to frighten off unwanted advances. He raked his eyes up and down her, taking in the whole ensemble, and offered a raised eyebrow before turning to the knight. “Who are you?”

The knight sized up the newcomer, pausing a long moment as if wondering if he would win a fight, then took a half step back. “Only a poor old fool taken in by your lady. Forgive me, sir. Freiin Fell.”

The man bowed out, managing to dissolve into the crowds in face of a stronger opponent. So much for lovesickness. At least he hadn't submitted her to the mortifying spectacle of duel for her honour or some such. Now she just had another mortifying ordeal to go through. 

Even with his tiny visor Crowley's grin was unmistakable, almost a leer. He really took far too much pleasure in her distress, sometimes. He leaned forward like a conspirator. “Dare I ask?”

“The pope has crowned a new King of all Francia,” she said primly. “I'm overseeing the coronation. And you? What are you doing here?”

“Preserving the virtue of pretty angels, looks like.”

“Crowley!” she growled. 

He laughed and shrugged, looking like he hadn't had such a good time in years. “General mischief. You know how it is. Lots of drunk idiots with swords, easy pickings.”

“Well, I suppose I owe you some leeway. Considering.”

“Leeway? Oh, no, angel, I expect recompense for this one.” Before she realised what he was doing he reached over and plucked the handkerchief from her hand, ignoring her startled exclamation. “You're spoken for, remember?”

“Crowley, you give that back!” He was already moseying backwards into the crowd, reflecting back a mockery of her own outraged expression. She could hardly chase him down and seize the favour back, helplessly watching as he tied it around his wrist with aid of his teeth. “Crowley!”

Aziraphale watched in horror as he started to disappear into the crowd. It wasn't anything, he wouldn't actually  _ expect _ ... her to... Images flashed before her eyes of tenderly unbuckling his armour, easing the plates off. Him in a bath, skin flushed pink as she dragged a wet cloth down his long, lean hands, making sure to attend the sensitive webbing between his fingers. A feather bed decked out in winner's colours. She must have been bright pink for how hot her face felt. 

Oh, if he thought for a second... She was going to smite him into next Tuesday!

Crowley managed to throw her one last cheeky grin before he disappeared, leaving her standing stunned with her mouth open. “See you tonight!”

\--

Salem, The New World – 1693

\--

Sometimes, Aziraphale would admit, the humans got a bit carried away.  _ Mass hysteria _ they would call it in later years. For now, though, it was just a great bit of silliness that was unpleasant for all involved. 

“Master Fell!” a man in a silly buckled hat boomed, making a sweeping gesture across his enraptured audience of nearly every person in Salem, “You are accused of unnatural acts, of consorting with the devil, and of most foul witchcraft! Do you deny these charges?”

“Well of course I deny them,” Aziraphale said, wriggling in the irons they'd clamped around his wrists. “I'd be very silly not to deny them, now wouldn't I?”

He couldn't bedazzle all these people. Dreadful for the brain and not to mention the paperwork. He should have put a stop to this earlier but he hadn't really thought people would go around reporting him for something so innocent. 

The night was freezing cold and Aziraphale would have rather stayed in. His breath frosted on the air, everyone clutched their burning torches close for warmth. It was miserable here, hardly a wonder they needed a made up plague of witches to distract them from the cold and the damp and the lack of food. Whenever people were as abysmally sad and hopeless as this it always swung to great joy, like midwinter feasts, or to terrible tragedies like... well, witch trials.

“Goody Chestler has avowed to us that in front of her son Joshua you did produce a gold coin as if from thin air through aid of sorcery! Do you accuse Goody Chestler of false witness?” The oaf in the hat was enjoying this all far too much. It was more of a show than he'd put on for little Joshua, and his hadn't ended in anyone being hanged. 

It didn't matter what he said, the crowd had come for the show, the noose was already being knotted. Five and a half thousand years in the one body and he was going to have to get a new one and wear it in. He'd never done it before but he heard breaking in the feet was the worst, they always pinched for the first hundred miles. Really, he was going to have a word with Gabriel about these witch trials, they were as bad as the Inquisition. The church had been wanting a firm hand for far too long. 

Crowley would freeze time and spirit him away. He'd change his clothes, make him unrecognisable. Maybe he'd just dazzle them all with some brilliant defense. He'd know what to do. Aziraphale sighed to himself. He had to buck up, he'd gotten himself out of trouble plenty of times, he didn't need Crowley to rescue him like a damsel in distress. He wasn't  _ looking forward _ to that rush, the gratitude, the pleasure of attention and caretaking. Certainly not. He was an angel of heaven. He could look after himself.

He would just let himself be hung but miracle his spine a touch stronger. A little flailing about and a convincing death rattle and he could just wander out of the morgue in the morning. He could change his own clothes, work his own miracles. 

He hadn't even finished the thought when a gasp rippled through the crowd. They were staring at him, not with the bloodlust of moments before but with fear and awe. He looked at the witchfinder, hoping for some common sense from this man of all people, but found him in equal awestruck wonder, staring just above Aziraphale's head. 

Aziraphale looked up and gasped. The frost he breathed out was coalescing into a halo around his head, great white wings hanging in the air, ethereal. The breath was pulled from his lungs, watching, wondering. He hadn't done that. Not even by accident. This was a miracle, alright, but not one he had worked. The archangels didn't know where he was and even if they did they wouldn't have bothered themselves. It couldn't be... 

He looked up, as if God Herself might be sitting in the clouds, smiling at him. He shook himself. He was being silly. It was probably just... a coincidence? There was an explanation. 

“A sign from God,” someone muttered from within the crowd, and others joined in. The stunned witchfinder held up his hands to placate them but the shouts for Aziraphale to be freed grew in volume, more people calling out to let him go before God struck them down. 

The noise was enormous, echoing at him from a blanket of lit torches against the black night, and before he had a chance to say anything for himself there were hands freeing his wrists, the crowd jostling him this way and that. This might be even worse. If they thought he was an angel they'd never let him alone. 

But there was one hand, in a crowd of hands, that closed firm over his wrist and started to lead him through the overexcited masses. Aziraphale found himself face-to-face with dark sunglasses reflecting torchlight back at him, Crowley's face a mask of laughter. 

“Actually hilarious, angel,” he said, shouting over the ruckus. “It was the coin tricks, wasn't it?”

Aziraphale blushed. “...maybe.”

Crowley let out a bark of laughter, fond amusement in his face, in his touch. “Let's get you out of here then, shall we?”

And it was all there, the swoop of his stomach, the fond warmth of seeing his friend again, something he couldn't name deep in his belly, telling him someone cared for him even on nights like these. He kept close to Crowley, all his thoughts focused on the tight grasp of fingers against his bruised wrist, and let himself be pulled away from the town of Salem.

\--

Paris, France – 1793

\--

For all his bad judgement, he had been right – the crepes in Paris were excellent. 

Crowley leaned across the table between them, chin in his hand, his body fixated on Aziraphale as he scraped up the last of his meal. For all it was Aziraphale's treat, Crowley rarely ate and made this no exception, preferring to watch. 

He also had a knowing gleam in his eye that Aziraphale didn't much care for. He hadn't meant to get captured. It wasn't on purpose. Crowley hadn't said it was on purpose but there was that  _ look _ and it was enough. Maybe he hadn't thought overly hard about the risks involved with his sojourn, but that was no crime. 

Crowley smiled at him with a fondness he wasn't expecting, as if he'd read his thoughts. There was some mockery in Crowley's face over his silliness, but also something that said  _ I don't mind. _ Aziraphale felt a little stab of tenderness, a softening of something behind his breastbone. They had danced to this tune so often that it should have been old hat, but it had lost nothing. He had still been struck breathless, still walked lighter on his feet, still entertained fantasies of what might be said or done in the aftermath if heaven would turn a blind eye for just a few minutes. 

_ Careful now, old boy, _ he schooled himself. It was just... fun. A rush. An ember to let smoulder and burn itself out before anything caught flame. Crowley was still the enemy, still a demon doing hell's bidding. The little flip of his stomach when he found himself pulled from the fire once again didn't mean anything. Couldn't.  _ Didn't. _

“Well,” he said, trying to fill the air with something. “I think I might steer clear of the continent for a while. They're a tad too spirited for my liking.”

“But then who will make crepes just the way you like them?”

Aziraphale bit down on a bubble of laughter. “Yes, alright. The price of my freedom, I suppose, to let you rib me?”

“That and a few francs worth of wine.” Crowley poured them both another glass and winked at him. 

Aziraphale must have had one too many himself, because he felt himself flush at that, the little spark he was trying to smother breathed back to life. He wished he was still in his nice clothes. It would be easy enough to have everything remade once he was back across the channel, but the outfit had seen its finest hour in the Bastille. There was something thrilling in the image of him here, in his lace and silk, in this intimate little space with Crowley, offering his thanks for the dashing rescue. There was always a bit of teasing, a bit of amusement at his expense, but it was well worth it to see Crowley so confident, casting himself in the role of hero and playing it to perfection. If that left Aziraphale in the opposite role, the damsel in distress, then he was happy to play it. 

“What will you do now?” Aziraphale asked. 

Crowley glanced outside. “Dunno. Probably lay low for a few months then send a memo to head office telling them this was all my idea.”

“I do wish you wouldn't take such risks.”

“You could do it, too, you know. Upstairs doesn't know anymore about what's going on than downstairs does. Liberating France would get you your miracles back.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “Getting found out would lose me a lot more.”

“How exactly did you lose them, anyway?”

Aziraphale had a flashback to the cup of tea he'd reheated eight times because he kept forgetting it was there. “Just... this and that.”

Crowley grinned and the spark flared back to life, his handsome face all lined and creased with affection and laughter. Aziraphale found himself smiling, too, eyes locked to Crowley's, drunk on the demon's attentions, their silly antics. He found he could tolerate any number of jibes as long as that smile was his reward. 

In the play they were acting out this is where the hero would kiss his rescued damsel and the curtain would fall. He found himself staring at Crowley, caught in amber eyes behind dark glass, sparkling nonetheless in the candle light. It didn't matter what he said, when heaven would have let him die for want of a miracle, Crowley had saved him. If he wasn't  _ good _ , as he so often said, then it was more than enough that he  _ cared _ . 

Aziraphale coughed, cleared his throat and tore his eyes away. If heaven caught a glimpse of his thoughts he'd be getting more than a strongly worded note. 

“Well,” he said, raising his glass, dragging his mind back to the present, to heaven, to hell, to two creatures sitting across a table with no curtain threatening to fall. “Here's to the French, and all their complexities.”

Crowley clinked the rims of their glasses together. “To the French.”

\--

Soho, London – 2020

\--

Alright, this time he was being a little silly. Soho wasn't the nicest of neighbourhoods, he dealt with burglars a few times over the centuries, but often they were just poor and would leave on their own if he gave them a little help. He had been halfway through the pitch when the ziptie was fastened around his wrists and he was shoved into a chair behind the counter. He had tried. And he was going to do the sensible thing and make these young men rethink their life choices. He was. He had been. Until he saw the clock. 

Crowley was, for all his flaws, punctual. Never more than a few minutes late, and often a few minutes early. He had said they would meet at 7. It was 6.59. 

The young men, having discovered his till wasn't worth their effort, were being far rougher than he would have liked with the contents of his display case. And there was always the danger of them deciding to discorporate him, a difficult situation to remedy nowadays. But there were human lives, minds and souls at stake. He had to think before he acted. Not run out the clock. Think.

He didn't think. Or at least, he didn't reason through a course of action. He was acutely aware of a first edition Wilde that was being shoved into a plastic shopping bag and even more aware of the second hand on his clock ticking steadily. 

It was 7.02 when the lights flickered once, then shut off. Aziraphale's heart fluttered. 

The men looked around, barely lit by the streetlights outside, starting to argue about who had done this. Aziraphale watched the shadows with bated breath, his pulse quickening in his bound wrists. He saw the light glint off wide black wings and the ember of yellow eyes begin to glow, a confusing, inhuman image in the shadows. A snake's hiss echoed in the darkness. 

It was quite easy to tell when the young men spotted Crowley, because they started shrieking, any notion of toughness fleeing them immediately. Aziraphale watched Crowley move with all the grace of a shadow, slipping across the room as the burglars fell over themselves trying to find an escape route without having to run past him. 

With a flash of black wings Crowley appeared behind them and Aziraphale watched him with doe eyes, paying no attention to the three men screeching as they ran for the door, dropping their looted books as they fled. He only had eyes for Crowley, his gorgeous yellow eyes, hair glinting copper, and those beautiful wings. 

Aziraphale distantly saw his own chest rise and fall with heavy breaths, noticed his trousers growing tight, felt the rush of air over parted lips. The door slammed closed and the lights flicked back on, revealing Crowley grinning to himself as he watched after the men, much less threatening in full light. 

After a moment to congratulate himself he looked to Aziraphale, his smile disappearing. Crowley dropped to his knees in front of him, cupping his face in one hand to inspect him. “Angel, they didn't hurt you, did they? Why didn't you... Are you alright?”

Aziraphale could only imagine his dopey, lovedrunk expression as he gazed at Crowley. His rescuer, his protector, his knight in shining armour. Even now he was looking at him so sweetly, with such concern. Crowley turned and grabbed the scissors from his desk without releasing him, moving to cut the ziptie. Aziraphale yanked his hands back. 

Crowley looked at him, bemused, one eyebrow raised. “Angel?”

“Leave it on,” Aziraphale said, his voice coming out as a hoarse breath, his heart pounding in his chest. 

Crowley's face did something complicated, moving from surprise, to realisation, to something unguarded, his mouth open, eyes wide and dark, then the insufferable smug smirk spread across his face. 

“I knew it.” He stood up, dragging Aziraphale with him, already crowding close to his body. “I bloody well knew it. You naughty angel.”

Aziraphale looped his bound hands behind Crowley's neck and dragged him in for a kiss. Crowley met him with a surprised moan, pulling them hip-to-hip, dancing himself backwards toward the desk. Aziraphale kept kissing him, hot, desperate, immediately parting his lips and licking into Crowley's mouth, letting himself be dragged and manhandled. Crowley slid his hands under Aziraphale's thighs and he found himself sitting on his desk, which the burglars had obligingly cleared for them. 

Then Crowley was between his legs, pressing against him, their bodies locked together and  _ yes _ , this was it, what he hadn't put name to all those times before. He whined into Crowley's mouth, rocking his hips against him, too hot in his own skin and unable to keep still. A demon-hot mouth bit at his neck, a smile against his skin. 

“Oh, my silly angel,” the demon murmured into his skin. “Can't leave you alone for five minutes.”

“Crowley...” Aziraphale gasped into the night air, trying to pull him closer, wishing he could grab his hands and guide them. He tugged at his restraints, a thrill shooting through him when they refused to budge. “Please, please, my darling, my hero, please...”

Crowley bit down on his neck, just the barest tease of teeth on skin, and Aziraphale whimpered, his back arching. He couldn't do anything to increase the friction, encourage Crowley to move his hands from where they dug into angelic hips, he couldn't  _ do _ anything. And that was... That was... He whimpered again, rocking forward against Crowley's hips as best he could. 

“Oh, angel, you've been dying for this, haven't you?” Crowley made a practised tease of lips and teeth along his collarbone. He leaned up to brush his lips against the shell of Aziraphale's ear, his voice just a breath into the sensitive skin. “Absolutely desperate.”

He was right, and Aziraphale wasn't ashamed to beg for it. How long had he waited for this? A thousand years? Two thousand? With a click of his fingers they were naked, their clothes sent to somewhere far off, and Crowley sucked in a breath through his teeth. Finally, blessedly, he took the hint and slid a hand between them, dragging his hand over both their lengths, just enough pressure to make Aziraphale keen. 

“Please, oh please, Crowley, please -” Aziraphale bucked into his hand, trying to get closer. 

Crowley bit down on his ear, forcing a cry out of him. “I will if you tell me the truth about the Bastille.”

“I wanted you.” The words spilled out of him, surprising even himself. “I was there for you. I wanted... wanted...”

Crowley hitched one of Aziraphale's legs up over his hip, spreading his legs wide enough, angling himself, getting them both ready.

“I knew it,” he hissed. 

One miracle that would most certainly be considered frivolous and he pushed into Aziraphale, both of them crying out. Aziraphale clasped his hands together, his wrists starting to hurt from the binding but he needed the leverage, needed to bear down. Oh, his demon, his Crowley, always taking care of him, taking pleasure in his comfort and his safety, willing to risk himself to achieve it. He pulled the demon closer with his legs.

It was quick, for both of them, a mad scramble of hands and hips, and Aziraphale making far more noise than he ought to, but in no time the pressure was building for him. Crowley cupped his face in one hand, the other spreading his legs obscenely wide, bracing them against the antique desk. There was a despair to the touches, an urgency of curling fingers and hot breath. They wouldn't, couldn't lose each other. Not again. Not ever. 

He came hard, untouched, bowing and arching, unable to move properly with his hands hooked behind Crowley's head. He distantly felt Crowley follow him, his beautiful cry, coming undone in Aziraphale's arms. 

Aziraphale didn't try to stop the dreamy smile that draped itself across his face, limp against Crowley's body. With a thought he dissolved the ziptie, finally freeing him, letting him drop his hands to Crowley's shoulders and slump back against the desk, panting. 

Crowley was draped over him, a dopey, all-fangs smile directed to the angel, eyes half-lidded. “Only you, my angel,” he pressed a sleepy kiss to Aziraphale's sternum, “would risk getting yourself discorporated for a good shag.”

“To be fair, my dear, it was a  _ very _ good shag.”

Crowley laughed, the sound rumbling through him as they lay chest to chest. He eased himself back, slipping free, and helped Aziraphale sit on his desk (which would need a deep clean in the morning). “Let's make a deal, angel. I'll roleplay your captive princess fantasies as much as you like if you'll stop trying to get yourself killed.”

Aziraphale let himself be pulled to standing, still wobbly in the legs, still unable to stop smiling. He threaded a hand through Crowley's hair and drew him in for a long, slow kiss. 

“My hero,” he murmured against the demon's mouth. “Just try to stop me.”

  
  



End file.
